Dale Petley

Monday, May 14, 2018

As I write this our Muslim friends are
preparing to keep the holy fast of Ramadan. It is not uncommon to hear the
faithful declare that Ramadan is the “best” month. I have never walked that
path and so I am in no position to say one way or another, but they do seem to
be on to something lovely.

The authors I’ve read largely agree on
the conditions in Arabia just prior to when the word of God was revealed to the
Prophet (PBUH). At the time it was a land marked by tribalism, raiding parties,
war games, usury, exploitation of the poor, abuse of women, rampant vice,
idolatry, and a vindictive arrogance which demonized opposition. If all this sounds
like the Evening News we might also remember that the classical era was ending,
the Roman Empire was busy falling apart, and we were on the verge of the
threshold of that period historians cheerfully call ‘the dark ages’. The slow
but steady collapse of the unifying forces of the past, and the fractious uncertainty
that created, may well have inspired in some a yearning for a religion of
oneness, the spirit of tawhid.

The more unmanageable our life together
becomes the faster we run towards the surrender we’ve been avoiding. Somewhere
in all this there is hope. I have no grand predictions about the fate of the
West, either in Europe or North America. I am no historian, I’m a priest; I
live in the present with the eternal. What I have learned is simple: At the end
of the day, humans are at a loss except for those who believe and live right and
encourage each other to be truthful and patient. (Surah 103) Somewhere in all this there is hope.

Monday, June 12, 2017

It has been written that ‘faith’ is the substance of things
hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. I suppose it could be said I had
faith back in August of 2013 when I wrote on this blog of my intention to
compose a collection of songs and call the album ‘LIFE BY RIVERS.’ I am
thankful for those who believed in this project and I am happy to
report that the album (CD) is done. We had a lovely release party on 8th
June, and the CD should be available on AMAZON by 3rd July. LIFE BY
RIVERS was recorded at Studio Seven in Oklahoma City and has been produced by
LUNACY RECORDS.

Monday, September 12, 2016

In 2004 the Catholic Church published
an Instruction entitled The Love of Christ Towards Migrants (Erga Migrantes
Caritas Christi, EMCC). It received Papal Authority on the Feast of St. Joseph
the Worker:

In
migrants the Church has always contemplated the image of Christ who said, “I
was a stranger and you made me welcome.” Their condition is, therefore, a
challenge to the faith and love of believers, who are called on to heal the
evils caused by migration and discover the plan God pursues through it even
when caused by obvious injustices.

Mary, the
Mother of Jesus, can be well contemplated as a symbol of the woman emigrant.
She gave birth to her Son away from home and was compelled to flee to Egypt.
Popular devotion is right to consider Mary as the Madonna of the Way. (EMCC)

From the day Abraham left Ur to the
night the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and his followers began the Hijrah from Mecca
to Medina migration has been front and center as an image of spiritual growth,
from dead ends to new beginnings, moving out of the darkness into the light. Holy
Scripture is full of believers who became migrants for a number of reasons.
Hagar and her son Ishmael were banished, thus beginning their migration. Israel
was forced to take up residence in Egypt when faced with starvation, and then
four hundred years later, they were homeless strangers again wayfaring through
Canaan. In fact the Hebrew Law reflects a firsthand sympathy for refugees and
sojourners and directs the faithful to feed, clothe, and help them, remembering
how we are all the descendants of such brave, sturdy stock. Sometimes people
became migrants because their lives were in danger. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph fell
into this category when they fled to Egypt rather than face the wrath of
jealous power.

I am related to migrants on both sides
of my family. The ones on my Mother’s side were refugees. They were the
Acadians of whom Longfellow wrote, driven away from their home in “the forest
primeval.” Exiled from the only life
they knew, those poor souls wandered “in
want and cheerless discomfort, bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns
of existence.”(Evangeline) I can
see them even now; the women with their heads covered in imitation of Mary,
favoring blue, our Lady’s color. So many places refused to allow the Acadians
to take up residence. They were the despised outcasts of their day; the objects
of hate, ridicule, fear, and loathing.

The term ‘refugee’ is derived from the
concept of refuge. Among the ancient Hebrews certain priestly cities were
appointed as ‘Cities of Refuge’. Someone responsible for taking a life but who
did so unintentionally could flee to such a city. The wrathful cry of blood for
blood could not reach you in a City of Refuge. That this pertained to priestly
cities where worship was offered speaks to the connection between mercy and
sacrifice. To this day churches still act as houses of refuge. It is why many
of them paint their doors red.

The ancient Hebrews understood the
connection between clemency and community. It’s not for nothing that Cain, the
builder of the first city, was a murderer against whom vengeance was forbidden.
From the beginning there was the recognition that there can be no living
together without prevenient mercy seasoning our friendships and agreements. We
cannot find our way together when each of us demands our pound of flesh, or as
Gandhi put it, “an eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind.”

Though justice be thy plea, consider
this;

That, in the course of justice, none of
us

Should see salvation: we do pray for
mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all
to render

The deeds of mercy.

(The
Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene 1)

Not only did the ancients grasp the
relation of mercy and sacrifice, they also understood the way mercy reinforces
liberty. They knew that living together as free people means being informed by history
but not controlled by it; that although they had been oppressed and taken
advantage of in the past there was no need for them to treat others the same
way. I suppose this is why a free Country once saw fit to summon the tired,
poor, homeless, and tempest-tossed to her shores, and why a still great nation
may continue to welcome wayfarers even today; and be a blessed home for Isa, Maryum,
and Yusuf, as they come seeking refuge.

Monday, July 4, 2016

I’ve been thinking about the meaning of
‘adab’. It is an Arabic word with no exact equivalent in English and has to do
with kindness and good manners expressed with courtesy and refinement. It is
similar to what we used to call ‘grace’ or ‘class.’ It’s what makes us civilized.
I suppose this is why 16th Century French Jesuits went to the
trouble of composing 110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company
and Conversation, and why, when George
Washington was a schoolboy, he transcribed these rules as part of a
hand-writing exercise. Penmanship was
taught back then and so were manners.

John Henry
Newman wrote that a true gentleman’s concern is in “merely removing the
obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him.” Emily
Post said that possessing good manners means having “a sensitive awareness of
the feelings of others”, and Ann Landers defined class as “being considerate of
others.” The First of the Rules of
Civility proclaims that “every action done in company ought to be with some sign of respect to
those that are present.” I don’t know about you but I’m beginning to see a
pattern here. Good manners
are the practical expression of loving-kindness. They reflect the charity which
Holy Scripture says is patient and kind, and is not boastful, proud,
self-seeking, or rude. We are told that Christians are to be kindly
affectionate one with another with brotherly love, and when we visit each
other’s homes for meals we should do so with thankfulness, eschewing all
rudeness. ‘Adab’ at its root is a term related to mealtime. It comes from a
culture in which dining together is still seen as an act of communion, and
everyone eats with the right hand of fellowship, and dips in a common dish.

To live
together as one nation is to dip in a common dish. It requires courtesy,
thoughtfulness, neighborliness, good will, a desire for fairness, and the old-fashioned
virtues of prudence, courage, temperance, and justice. Above all it takes charity
and a preference for getting along. In other words we cannot be civilized
unless we’re civil.

In his essay:
The Spirit of Appomattox Court House,
historian Douglas Brinkley wrote that “while the scars of the monstrous Civil
War still remain, the wounds have closed since 1865, in large part, because of
the civility of Grant and Lee.” We need civility. No Country is so surely
established or has a Constitution so well devised that it can long endure when
good manners are abandoned, for then we have forsaken the very virtues
required in self-governance. We need grace – the inner and outer adab of
charity – if we’re to have any hope of living in peace.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

I’m reading Coriolanus for Lent. I’m meditating on the text. It is well worth
while. T. S. Eliot thought very highly of the play, and, as he often did, took
the quite contrarian view that it was, together with Antony and Cleopatra,
Shakespeare’s “most assured artistic success.” (The Sacred Wood, 1919) I’ll let the scholars have that debate.

Although he makes reference to the
character, Coriolanus, near the end of The
Waste Land, Eliot’s extended treatment of the play’s central themes is
found in his unfinished collection begun in1931 entitled Coriolan.It was written at
a time when fascism was spreading in Europe and society was sagging at the
knees at home. The American philosopher Russell Kirk said of the poem: “It was
an appeal to true principles of public order, rooted in religion and in
historical consciousness, against ideology, against the cult of personality,
against the indifference or irresponsibility of the crowd, against the ‘Servile
State’ described by Hilaire Belloc, and against captivity to a moment in time.”
(Eliot and His Age, 1971)

There was much in Eliot’s day to cause
him to reflect on Shakespeare’s treatment of the story of the ancient Roman
General. The rise of Nationalism full of bold promises by great men on horseback
and the marriage of technology and empire led the poet to inquire into the deeper
sources of authority and meaning. He sought to reflect upon the love that animates
community and makes life possible. It seems to me that making room for such
reflection is one of the reasons the church observes penitential seasons. We
need simply to stand still every now and then and let the parade of pomp and circumstances
pass us by, and in that simplicity, to look, and to listen.

Monday, July 20, 2015

On
New Year’s Day, 1953, my mother and father were pulling the car into the
driveway of the home of my maternal grandparents in Newton Heights, New
Brunswick, when my grandfather, our pépère,
came quickly out of the back door to greet them. They could tell by his
expression that something truly momentous had occurred. As soon as
Dad began to roll down the car window, Pépère, with his thick French accent
told them, “Hank Williams died today.” That was huge news back then especially
in our home with our great love for what was then called ‘Country and Western’
music. We came by it honestly. My mother’s uncles and aunts each played
numerous instruments, most notably fiddle, accordion, and guitar. They
performed at barn dances and County Fairs throughout Southeastern New Brunswick
in the 1930’s, 40’s and early 50’s. My mother remembered how as a little girl
she would listen to her aunts play fiddle and accompany a young singer/songwriter
named Hank Snow who would come by the house to play music before heading over
to do his show on Moncton’s CKCW radio.

Mum’s Uncle Arthur not only performed songs but
wrote them as well. She recalled helping him with a song he was writing during
the Second World War called ‘I’ll Miss You When You’re Gone.’

When grey skies are as blue

As when I first met you

And city lights are shining
once again …

I enjoy writing lyrics. It’s my principle hobby. I play the guitar but am not a musician and would much rather listen to someone play and sing my songs than perform them. I
suppose the great age of lyric writing was during the Big Band era with singers
like Sinatra ready to give them voice. That was also the age of Musicals. Even
the Beatles did a cover version of Meredith Wilson’s ‘Til There Was You’ from The Music Man (my favorite musical)
because they just couldn’t resist a great song.

Getting
back to 1953 and the death of Hank Williams, I’ve always had a hard time
grasping that he was only twenty-nine years old when he died. He wrote so much
in such a short time it’s no wonder he was called ‘The Hillbilly Shakespeare.’

Did you ever see a robin weep when leaves
begin to die?

That means he’s lost the will to live

I’m so lonesome I could cry

My
own songwriting has surprised me over the years. As a teenager I listened
mostly to the Rock and Pop music of the day tuning in to the radio’s top 40.
Then disco came along and I turned off the radio and haven’t listened to
popular music since. As an adult I’ve been a devotee of folk and baroque. I
wasn’t expecting that so many of my recent songs would have a Country feel to
them. Oh well … I blame Hank.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

HAPPY CANADA DAY to friends and family in the “true north
strong and free.” While growing up in Moncton we called it Dominion Day,
mindful of how our fellow New Brunswicker, Sir Samuel Leonard Tilley, suggested
calling Canada a dominion based on Psalm 72:8, "He shall have dominion
also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth."
Anyway, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it. By the way, if you’re from
Moncton and still call it Dominion Day you probably remember The Bunkhouse
Boys, The Bore View Restaurant, Moncton Family Outfitters, Bunny’s General
Store, the days when we referred to places as Léger's Corner, Georgetown, and
Newton Heights, when Cathédrale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption was the city’s
tallest building, and when the subway overpass on Main Street was resplendent
in glorious pink. Like the song says: “If home is where the heart is I’ve never
been away.”

I wrote this song a few weeks ago.

IN MY HOME

In my home close to the ocean

There’s a river running by
And the memories of a lifetime
Are the ones that will not die
I know I can’t get
lost there
No matter where I roam
For when I am in that city
I’ve already found my way back home

Hear the bells of old St. George’s
Calling everyone to prayer
It’s a Feast Day or a funeral
There is incense in the air
I see people taking pictures
As the tide comes roaring in
And if I try to explain it
I don’t know where I would begin

I took a walk down by the river

Saw the ghost of Molly Kool
She was Captain of her vessel
We never learned of her in school
I wandered back to Main Street
Where I watched the setting sun
And as I heard the sound of music
I knew the night had just begun

When I sing a hymn at midnight

That the angels joy to hear
God comfort me with apples
And the knowledge that you’re near
The busy streets grow quiet
I hear nighthawks in the sky
As I fall asleep I’m smiling
And love is the reason why